


In Hell with Your Back Broke

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [19]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Mary Wardwell is missing, and Hilda goes on a road trip with an old pal.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	In Hell with Your Back Broke

Lilith’s standing there in the overgrown weeds, the last rays of the setting sun casting an ominous orange sheen over her and the backdrop of shitty old tractor and shitty old trailer house and dense woods. Her face and posture are imperious, but juxtaposed against her overalls and the setting, she looks absurd to Hilda, and Hilda unsuccessfully tries to stifle a giggle about it. She shouldn’t laugh. It’s not the time. But it slips out. 

Perhaps she’s on the verge of a breakdown, has finally lost it, has finally collapsed under the weight of the knowledge that her niece is the Chosen One, her sister is a multi-traumatized mess, and her girlfriend is a powerful demon. And they’re all entwined in each other’s lives with no clear answer and no clear escape.

Zelda has puffed herself up, just like the roosters at the cockfight, and is standing a few paces in front of Hilda with her jaw angled up and clenched.

Hilda realizes she’s still holding Mary Wardwell’s hand. And ain’t that a kick in the head. Another person woven into this horrible tapestry. Just a single thread, unobtrusive, hard to see at a distance, but if one were to extract that thread, the whole thing would unravel. She hates that an innocent mortal has had to be involved, but she also knows that sometimes needs must, that sometimes things just happen. But also she doesn’t believe in accidents or coincidences.

Hilda squeezes Mary’s hand, looks at Zelda, looks at Lilith, says,

“There’s really no reason to argue. Maybe we could all retire to the Mortuary, have a drink or two, discuss what’s been going on.”

Mary looks at her, fear and confusion in her eyes. Zelda looks at her, a sharp admonishment. Lilith looks at her, still incensed but a little softer-looking, a little intrigued-looking.

Lilith opens her mouth to reply, but then she’s suddenly preternaturally rigid and her eyes have rolled back into her skull and her projected body shakes and flickers in and out of this plane of reality. The rigidness dissipates as suddenly as it had appeared, and Lilith says,

“I’m terribly busy. You must excuse me.”

And Lilith is gone.

Hilda and Zelda and Mary are all standing in the weeds, looking at where Lilith had been standing. They’re all silent and still.

They’re all silent and still until Zelda stalks toward Hilda. Zelda’s eyes are blazing, and her movements are measured and sure, and she says,

“Really?! Really you’ve been carrying on with this woman or whatever she is fully knowing what I’ve been trying to accomplish at the Academy?!”

“Zelds, please, not now,” Hilda says, looking at Mary.

Zelda huffs. Mary looks at both of them in turn, then makes eye contact with Hilda, gives her hand a squeeze, turns, and sprints toward the mud parking lot.

xxx

Hilda and Zelda have slept in their separate bedrooms.

Hilda’s now in the kitchen, frying eggs, careful not to break any yolks because she knows Zelda likes her eggs over easy.

But unbeknownst to Hilda, Zelda’s already left the house.

Sabrina and Ambrose descend the stairs, eat at the kitchen island, leave.

When Zelda doesn’t appear, Hilda puts the pieces together. Hilda’s not surprised that Zelda is avoiding her. Hilda figures Zelda has every right to not want to look at her.

But there’s so much that’s been unanswered and unsaid.

Hilda lights the black candle, says, “Lilith. I summon you.”

Hilda leans against the stove, waits.

The ethereal image of a billy goat appears. The image elongates and distends. The goat stands on its hind legs, and then it says,

“Lilith is currently out of the office. Please leave a message that includes your contact information.”

“Oh she knows damn good and well who this is and where to reach me!” Hilda says.

The anthropomorphised goat shrugs, returns itself to its regular goat shape, and disappears.

xxx

Later that day, Sabrina and Zelda and Hilda and Ambrose are all in Zelda’s Academy office.

It’s tense.

Sabrina’s trying to explain about how Nick and Lucifer are inhabiting the same body—old news—which is currently shackled in the basement of the Academy—new news but not as new as it ought to be. The shackled man has been down there for the better part of a week, and Sabrina’s just now telling them because she suspects Nick’s resolve is slipping and that Lucifer is somehow escaping and manipulating things. Sabrina should’ve already told them she’d gone traipsing around in hell to get him back. But what’s done is done, Hilda supposes.

Ah, Hilda thinks. That must’ve been why Lilith had left so abruptly and creepily yesterday, to help sort this. But then again, why would Sabrina have summoned Lilith about it? She’s paying more attention to trying to piece together that mystery than listening to what Zelda’s saying. Now she’s more sure that she’s losing it. She should be more concerned about Sabrina’s insane plan to transfer Lucifer to another host body and what it means that the bugger can still influence events while trapped, but she finds she’s a little numb to the conversation playing out before her, can’t quite focus on the details. There’s just a little too much for her to process. She’s thinking about how to express some of her concerns when Zelda sneezes.

They all stare at her as she blows her nose into her monogrammed handkerchief.

It gives Sabrina the pause she needs to lay out more of her plan, but before she can get too far, Hilda’s cell phone rings. It’s less jarring than the sneeze. The caller id says it’s Baxter High.

“I thought it was one of your pre-arranged Academy days? They’re not calling me to tell me you're skipping, are they?” Hilda says.

“It is! They’re not!” Sabrina says.

Hilda answers.

“Hilda—I mean, Miss Spellman?”

Hilda blushes and steps out into the hall, says,

“Miss Kingston?” Sure, she’s a bad kisser, but she’s a good dancer and those shoulders. Hilda can’t help but thrill a little at the sound of her voice still.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I didn’t know who else to call. Miss Wardwell… well, she’s been acting funny for the last few months. And now. She’s gone.” The hair at Hilda’s nape prickles. She says,

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” 

“She didn’t show up for work this morning, isn’t answering her cell phone or home phone. The vice principal drove over and knocked on her door. She wasn’t there. And we’re all just a little bit worried about her. And I know that you two… were close at one point.” She pauses, and Hilda hears her swallow. “And I thought maybe you’d have an idea of where she might be. We don’t want to call the police yet. The vice principal said nothing looked weird at her house, and like I said, she’s been acting funny, so maybe she just took a notion.”

Hilda’s torn. She feels a special responsibility to Mary. Lilith had called her “their girl,” and it hadn’t set right, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Surely Zelda and Ambrose could handle whatever this Satan nonsense is for a day. It’s already kept for a week, after all.

“Miss Spellman? Are you still there?”

“Yes,” she says finally. “Um. I’ll cover the gas if you’ll drive.”

xxx

Hilda’s still adjusting in the passenger seat of Miss Kingston’s old but immaculately clean and polished Bronco. The vehicle clunks and thuds as the transmission shifts gears. The air conditioning blows almost cool rather than cold. Hilda considers these conditions comforting rather than concerning. She leans against the vinyl bench seat and settles herself, internalizes the patterns of the mechanics, lets herself bask in the overly warm cab, lets herself forget all the recent events and just be a woman in a Bronco on her way to Saratoga. She won’t have this luxury for long; she’ll have to start figuring out how she’s going to lure Mary back to Greendale soon. But for now. For now, Hilda’s got her feet propped on the dash and her hand out the open window and her eyes closed, so she doesn’t see just how many times Miss Kingston glances over at her.

They haven’t said much to each other except for the required pleasantries when Miss Kingston had picked her up at the mortuary, and they’re already twenty miles out of town. They’re firmly on the freeway when Miss Kingston finally says,

“I’ve never been to Saratoga. I don’t much care for the ponies. Although my daddy did. He took me to the Kentucky Derby once. I was more excited about wearing a big glamorous hat and pretending my 7 Up was a mint julep than I was about the race.”

Hilda opens her eyes, looks over at Miss Kingston. Hilda hadn’t taken much stock of it before, but now she does notice: Miss Kingston has changed out of her math-teacher clothes, is wearing a black racer-back tank top and tight, ratty jeans and scuffed, tawny, square-toed cowboy boots. Hilda wonders if this is her regular off-work attire or if she’s trying to go incognito for some reason. Hilda says,

“I went to the Kentucky Derby once and felt the same way. Although I was wishing my mint julep was a 7 Up instead.” They both laugh. Hilda asks, “How old were you, then?”

Miss Kingston takes a breath, taps her fingernails on the steering wheel, says,

“It wasn’t long after Mama died. So I must’ve been fourteen or thereabouts.”

There’s a pause. And then Miss Kingston continues,

“My siblings were grown and gone, and he was trying to connect with me. He let me pick the horse he bet on and everything.”

Hilda is about to say something—a condolence, maybe—but Miss Kingston laughs suddenly, a bitter laugh, and says,

“He was an actuary. I don’t think he ever got over not having been able to predict Mama’s death.”

“I suppose that would be frustrating for an actuary. It’s been my experience that numbers people get quite out of sorts when they can’t control their circumstances,” Hilda says. Miss Kingston cuts her a look. Hilda smiles back at her, reaches across the seat, puts her hand on Miss Kingston’s forearm, says, “Why do you think I asked you to drive?”

“How thoughtful of you. A little smug and condescending, though,” Kingston says. Hilda laughs, says,

“I’ll have to write that in my diary. It’s usually my sister who gets ‘smug and condescending.’”

“I’ve met her maybe twice, but I could see that. What do you usually get, then?”

“Oh I don’t know… ‘silly and unrealistic’?” Hilda says, and she watches Kingston’s brow furrow.

“I am primarily a numbers person, yes, but I also have a minor in English lit, and there are two things wrong with that answer: one, it’s not a parallel construction; neither smug and silly nor condescending and unrealistic are analogous. And two, it’s not true to character.”

Hilda laughs. Why couldn’t this woman have been this clever when they’d tried dating? She says,

“You caught me. I don’t actually receive very much honest criticism outside the heat of an argument.”

“Is that because you’re beyond reproach or because you surround yourself with people you know won’t challenge you?”

Kingston has said it flirtatiously, but something about it sticks in her brain unpleasantly. She has other friends, but they all recede from her mind’s eye as she processes the words. She’s thinking only of Zelda and Lilith, the two closest to her: They are both very strong personalities, smart and aggressive and exciting and impulsive. They certainly challenge her—competitively or adventurously. But not in the way Miss Kingston’s talking about, not the moral challenge of being the best version of herself. Both Zelda and Lilith have a pronounced self-loathing streak, and Hilda’s cottoned onto the notion they both have that she’s the better person. And now with Kingston’s question, she realizes they both let her be, assuming she’ll continue to be, never thinking to encourage her to be. 

Hilda says,

“Maybe both.” Kingston looks at her and then pulls a pair of aviator sunglasses from where they’re hanging on the sun visor and puts them on, says,

“Almost certainly both.”

Hilda figures the sunglasses mean Kingston’s shielding herself both physically against the bright sun and symbolically against whatever Hilda might say next. So Hilda takes a chance, says,

“I knew a woman who ran a contracting business from the early thirties until the mid-sixties and so was up close and personal with asbestos for over thirty years. She’d been chain smoking since she was twelve years old. And her husband was a mechanic, so she spent a lot of time in his shop inhaling diesel fumes. Any actuary with half a brain would’ve pegged her for dead from lung cancer at sixty. But at seventy-five in perfect health she perished in a train derailment on her way to a holiday in Santa Fe.”

Hilda can’t see what Kingston’s eyes are doing, but she can see her body stiffen as Kingston says,

“My mother had a family history of thyroid problems, type-two diabetes, breast cancer, alcoholism. The actuarial tables were stacked against her for an early stroke. But a serial killer got her first.”

“Oh my!” Hilda says. “Hard enough for an actuary and harder still for a teenage girl.”

“I’d’ve handled it better if there hadn’t been so many true crime enthusiast creeps in love with the psychopath who—” Kingston’s knuckles are white as she clutches the steering wheel. 

Hilda’s hand is still on her forearm, and Hilda squeezes now, rubs her thumb along the tendons of her wrist, says,

“No wonder you spend so much time at the gym.”

xxx

Mary’s sunburned and haggard—the same sloppy bun and pleated slacks from the cockfight—hunched over an electronic console in the lobby of the Saratoga Casino Hotel.

Hilda and Miss Kingston approach her.

“Miss Wardwell,” Hilda says. 

Mary startles, spooked as a horse. Mary’s wide, startled blue eyes bore into her. And then those eyes scan over to Miss Kingston. When they track back to Hilda they’re suspicious. 

“What do you want from me?” Mary says.

“Nothing,” Hilda says.

“Nothing but my silence,” Mary says.

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh getting through season 3 necessitated a lot of bourbon, so I’m not super sure about the canonical timeline. So I guess this is a full-time AU now.


End file.
